Bloodlust
by DandysBoy
Summary: Tristan and Mr. March are fascinated by each other, two men both filled with rage and looking for release by way of murder. At first, the two simply assist each other in getting their rather unique fix, but feelings become complicated as their relationship grows into something not so platonic. Rated for strong language, sexual content, and violence.
1. Chapter 1

**I do not claim to have created any of the characters from AHS: Hotel and do not publish this story with the intent of making money.**

 **I am well aware that the risk of writing this story after only three episodes have aired is that any assumptions I make could end up being way off base. I'm perfectly okay with that. I felt compelled to write this because even though Tristan and Mr. March have appeared in two episodes, I already find their relationship to be quite interesting.**

To think a year ago I was walking the runway in Prague, chasing down hotties in tight skirts and snorting crystal to get a mediocre fix. Now I'm a resident at the Hotel Cortez, a newly born vampire filling my days with murder, blood, and sex. Murder, blood, sex.

You feel more deeply as a vampire. When I taste the bloody river from the neck of some poor fuck lured in on Grindr, I can taste the residual lust, the terror. The basic, primal emotions crackle through my body like electricity and I feel high, way higher than I ever felt on meth.

The sex I've indulged in here is the best I've ever had, too. I traveled all over the world and got it from anyone and everyone; women, men, models, editors, junkies. Not once, though, did I ever feel truly fulfilled beyond the immediate release. Get off, pull out, go home and start the hunt over again the next night. Now, though, I sleep with the Countess or Mr. March and feel like I'm on fire. I cum and it's like my entire body is dipped in a heavenly river, a stream of erotic energy. It's not just the virus, though, with its side effect of heightened sensation. It's the intimacy. How ironic, that these two towering figures in the domain of murder help me to reach mind blowing completion that I've never once felt in the world of law and sanity. Sex has always been a weapon for me. I just turned on the swagger and got whatever I wanted; orgasm, meth, the upper hand. Now, fucking the Countess or letting Mr. March take me is like making art or having a spiritual epiphany.

Murder, blood, sex. And so it goes. Day after day, and yet it never gets old, never feels desperate like the daily grind of fiending and hunting for meth. That doesn't mean this is all uncomplicated. In fact, I feel like something might break soon. If Elizabeth finds out my true feelings for James March, I'm fucked. She'll either throw me out or shoot me dead. Both are the same to me. I can't imagine living outside of this hotel now. This is home, and they are my family; James, especially. What the hell am I going to do?

* * *

When I first saw James kill a woman, I was repulsed and shocked by the sudden turn of events. I ran away from that sicko as fast as my legs would carry me. The powerful vibrations of rage fill me up almost every day of my life, but I had never up to that point seriously considered releasing that rage in the medium of murder.

Then I had my encounter with Elizabeth. She turned me, put me on a new path where taking life became a necessity, a tool for survival. The two of us sparked a new passion in each other. She was the first that I had that true feeling of rapture with, and I felt that I owed her every ounce of my being, my entire soul itself. As our relationship burned on, I told myself I really did love her, that my feelings for her weren't only the affections of a newborn dark creature for his queen. Yet, one night only a few days after my rebirth, when the two of us were fucking on Elizabeth's balcony, the memory of James firing that pistol and killing that woman flashed before my eyes. I remembered the look of pure ecstasy on his handsome face, and my body lit up in a purifying blaze unlike anything I had ever experienced.

I went to Room 64 the next day, wanting to talk to James again, to see if my instinct was right. Something told me that the two of us were one in the same, both erotically charged by the act of murder itself, that highest form of release for rage. For Elizabeth, the hunt is the erotic part, the searching and the luring in. For me, though, it's the killing, the powerful sway of the act of taking life. I'm a damn slut for it.

The ghost and I talked about the true nature of the Hotel Cortez, March's temple to homicide. The hellish arrangement was made that day as I assured James that our mutual addiction would be fed.

* * *

It's March, and my stay at the hotel has been relatively uncomplicated up to this point. Elizabeth and I have been fucking constantly while James and I feed our addiction. So far our relationship has been pure bloodshed and murderous release, but I know deep down that James and I are coming to a tipping point.

I sit at the bar as Liz Taylor pours my victim a scotch. I get up from my stool four seats to the left. I act confident, cocky as I take a seat next to the handsome blond who's currently reading a giant tome that turns out to be a text of Constitutional law.

"You poor bastard," I start. "Nine o'clock on a Friday night in spring and you're partying with a textbook and a cross dressing bartender." Liz gives me the middle finger.

Blondie smirks, glancing up briefly before turning back to his book. "I'm not in Los Angeles to party," he explains in a subtle southern drawl. "I'm interviewing for law school in the morning"

"Ah, a scholar. That's still no excuse." I slide my hand over his muscular thigh, settling my firm grip just below his crotch. "I'm guessing you've been studying for weeks." I lean in to whisper in his ear. "Don't you think you deserve a break? One night of indulgence before your big day?"

The man keeps on with that endearing grin as he moves my hand off his thigh. "No thanks. I'm not gay anyway."

I roll my eyes and I see Liz do the same thing in my periphery. "It's 2016, man. Everybody's fucking everybody. Who cares about gay or straight?" The guy stares down into his scotch as I lower my voice again. "Why don't you come up to my room for a bit? I've got some of the purest coke you've ever had and I give one mean fucking blowjob."

Blondie blushes and then looks up at me, contemplating his decision. "Maybe for a few minutes, but only a few. I have to finish this chapter."

I put my hands up in surrender. "Fair enough, dude. Quick blowjob and then you're right back down here sipping scotch and reading about-," I lean over to look at page 135, "comparative parliamentary procedure. Whatever the fuck that is."

I flirt with the guy as we make our way up the elevator to the blackened heart of the hotel. I don't relish this part as much as Elizabeth does, tricking the poor bastards. I'm good at it, no doubt, but I feel almost bad for the fucker. That doesn't mean I'll make any move to warn him of what's ahead or give him the chance to run away. The kill is just too sweet, and the look on James's face is something I can't help but anticipate with an admittedly erotic fervor. I throw aside his shirt, manhandle him on to the bed, and kiss my way down his chest; my mind isn't with him, though. My attention is on the room around me as I wait for my ghostly companion to come out and play.

I see him just as I am unbuttoning the student's jeans. Mr. March steps out of his black closet and slowly makes his way over to the bed, knife in hand. He looks positively mad. His eyes are practically bulging out of his skull, never blinking as he stares at his victim, the thirst for murder evident on his handsome face. I should be terrified, but I'm not even close to that. I'm turned on, and this southern beauty's sun-kissed skin and luscious lips have nothing to do with it. I feel my erection straining against my tight jeans as the hotel's builder continues to inch forward. This is our dance, the one we've spent months perfecting. The two of us haven't had any physical contact yet, but in a way we've been fucking all along and I'm only beginning to admit it to myself. This ritual has become our own act of mutual masturbation as we stroke the fires of murder inside and between us.

I take blondie's cock into my mouth, granting him one last pleasurable sensation as James stands menacingly over us, holding the knife high, shaking with the stimulating anticipation. I feel myself orgasm, ejaculate into my boxers as the serial killer slashes the weapon through the air, burying the blade deep into the carotid artery as the student's eyes fly open with shock. I see the terror on the young man's face as blood pours in heavy pulses from his open wound. I look up into James's eyes, see that look of satisfaction. I moan and then move up to drink from the dying man's life source. I love the taste, the smell, the electricity of fear on my tongue. I stop just when the blood begins to sour, just when the young student dies.

"Good man," James says as I turn around to look at him again. "I hope you don't mind me taking this one. I'll let you have the next."

"I like watching," I admit. "I'm a voyeur, I guess."

James flashes a wicked smile and I can't resist any longer, don't even realize what I'm doing before I'm standing up, kissing him with every ounce of lustful passion zinging through my body. His lips aren't cold as I expected them to be. He doesn't really kiss back, just stands stiffly as I take advantage. I finally pull back and see a curious frown on his face. He seems confused, unsure. I feel the same. I turn away to compose myself, to think of what I should say next. I turn back and the room is empty. I fear that I may have scared James away.

 **There you have it! Chapter one. I welcome and appreciate any reviews or comments that y'all wish to leave for me. I thrive on constructive criticism, so please nitpick at me as long as you're respectful. Looking in particular for structural pieces that are confusing (like chronology) and awkward phrasing. Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey all. Thanks for reading. Definitely a change of tone this chapter, a bit angsty, but the fun stuff is still on the way. This is where I start to make some pretty big assumptions about Tristan, but I'd rather make the assumption that he is basically a lost soul instead of a petulant child like some people in this fandom seem to think. I mean, I don't think you use meth every day if life is just peachy. I see him as someone who feels a profound emptiness and is looking for a way to fill it. It'll be interesting to see how this fleshes out in canon.**

 _May_

Elizabeth and I are not the same. She is drawn to the rage inside of me, enjoys watching me kill, but she doesn't understand it like James does. When the ghost looks into my eyes, I know he sees my violent potential, the vibrating fury that fuels my appetites. He tells me often that when he gazes into my soul, he sees a mirror, a reflection of his own darkness.

I am snapped out of these thoughts when my queen enters the large bathroom of the presidential suite with a young woman. I stand up in the bathtub and Elizabeth's smile is smug as our doomed guest admires the physique that I worked so hard to maintain as a model.

"I told you he was beautiful," the Countess says, leaning over the redhead's shoulder and staring straight at me. "Why don't we get a bit more comfortable?" Elizabeth begins to unbutton the woman's blouse.

The two women undress and I hold out my hand to help our victim step into the tub. She sits between us, facing me. I lean forward and kiss her as Elizabeth traces her nails over the woman's delicate neck.

"Do it, Tristan," Elizabeth demands, looking into my eyes when I pull back from the kiss. The woman looks confused, and then I tap into the rage inside of me as easily as taking a breath, slashing her throat and relishing that final look of mortal terror that haunts her face.

I drink from the warm, bloody flow, tasting that last spike of sweet adrenaline as Elizabeth holds the gasping woman's arms down. When I am finished, my queen takes her turn. The woman finally slumps over dead. The Countess and I kiss, smearing more blood all over each other's face and upper body as the corpse sits forgotten between us. As our tongues dance together, flashes of the many kisses I have shared with James since that first time back in March parade behind my closed eyes.

I pull back and give Elizabeth my best wicked grin. I don't really feel the level of sadistic pleasure I truly savor, though, and I wonder if she can tell I'm acting. It's not that I don't enjoy feeding with the other vampire, but there's something missing between us, a passion that keeps us from truly joining. I know what it is, too. It's fear, the fear of looking into another who is so like you and wondering if it's too much to handle.

* * *

 _March_

After that first stolen kiss, James does not show himself to me for over a week. I go to Room 64 every day, lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling, wallowing in the first despair I have known since being infected by the virus. I've been aware for some time that I am not truly satiated when I murder and feed with Elizabeth, that the homicidal ritual with Mr. March is the only thing that truly fulfills my cravings. The power of that dependency, though, does not really strike me until now, when I would give anything to see the look of pleasure on James's face as he rips another life away or watches me do the same. I'm a fucking idiot. Right now I could be hauling a body into the ghost's death chute and staring into those eyes, seeing the satisfaction that only the two of us can understand; if only I hadn't given myself to impulse, had resisted those pink lips.

I say nothing as I lay on the bed now, ten long days after we killed the student. James is a man who will do as he pleases and no amount of coaxing on my part will convince him to appear to me if he doesn't wish to do so. I've spent the last week filling myself with every pleasure that the Countess has been willing to give: hunting and feeding, fucking. The rage is growing and no amount of brutality has been enough to release any of it. I feel the same way I did when meth started to feel less and less heavenly. That same emptiness, same loss is starting to take hold and the sorrow and anger in me is about to boil over. I try to discharge some of it into the seemingly empty room, which offers no relief of course. "Fuck you, March."

"You're ready now." I smile, bolting upright to see the ghost standing near the desk. My elation wanes some, though, when I see the demented grin on his face. My gut tells me that something is off, that our relationship is about to cross into new territory. Mr. March continues, "The anger inside of you is nearly overflowing, so let's see what wicked things you can do with it."

I am brought back to my first encounter with James as he whistles for Ms. Evers. The ever-loyal laundress enters the room, pushing a bound and gagged woman onto the bed next to me before disappearing back into the shadows. I get off the bed, looking wearily between the hotel's unfortunate guest and the builder. "I thought we already got past this. I'll shoot her if that's what you want me to do."

"Not this time, Tristan," the ghost clarifies, looking at me with an expression filled with mania. "You've thoroughly proven to me your thirst for bloodshed, but now you must show me the depth of your ruthlessness. This poor creature will not die by the bullet. You will torture her until her body can no longer handle it."

I swallow past the lump in my throat. For the first time since I met him, I am afraid of James. I have seen hints of the madness underneath the rage, know that his restless and unstable mind drove him to build the murder palace around us. Now, though, I see the monster exposed fully. Is it staring at me with beautiful brown eyes. It is the true core of James, the being that has lost all respect for human life, if there was any to lose in the first place. There is an instinct in me that tells me to run, to sprint from this cursed room and seek shelter and simplicity in the arms of my queen. Even if I am not wholly satisfied with her, wouldn't it be better than crossing all these lines with this truly evil man? There is a greater instinct in me, though, the one that has me glued to the spot and captured in this serial killer's gaze. It is the part of me that thirsts for danger, for murder, for the road to hell. I am terrified of that drive, and so incredibly turned on. My dick is hard as a rock.

Mr. March hands me a spiked whip. "Go ahead. Take your pleasure from her flesh." I step up to the bed, looking down at the woman. She stares up at me, her eyes pleading for mercy. For an instant, the humanity in me surfaces forcefully, and I almost put the horrendous device down. Mr. March adds, "Remember, Tristan, I know what is in your heart." I look down again, and the two drives in me compete. I wonder momentarily which will come out on top.

 **Sorry for the cliffhanger, but this is the only way I feel like I can gloss over the torture seen, which is something I don't particularly want to delve too deeply into. Also, it was starting to run a bit long, so I split it into two to make the chapters at least fairly even, not that I'm OCD or anything. Working on chapter three now!**


	3. Chapter 3

_May_

The anger I felt when I first became a vampire is not the same anger I access now when I tap into the energy that makes me an adept killer, so quick to slash into the circulatory system that my victim can be dead before even knowing what hit them unless I am in the mood to take my time. Each day is filled with the things I thoroughly enjoy-spending time feeding and fucking with Elizabeth, murdering and making love with James-so I have nothing to truly complain about.

When I was first turned, I resented the whole world that never saw me as anything but a pretty face and a nice body. I straight up hated the ones who knew me personally as they sat back and watched me fall prey to my drug of choice, allowed me to become a cynical and miserable shell of my former self. I still resent the world, sure, but now I am isolated from it in this hotel where I spend my days fulfilling every dark desire I denied myself before being infected. The energy I tap into now is primal, directed at everything and nothing in particular, primed to destroy whatever comes in my path if I feel the urge to engage with it. I know that James built this place to do the same, to channel his basic rage into destroying every innocent soul that enters this sinister monument to murder. I've been wondering, though, if the ghost ever felt human, ever felt guilt. It's been so long since I've felt it that I'm starting to wonder the same about myself. I have memories of more innocent days in my youth, but there is always the nagging question: Did I enter this hotel a furious man, or a latent monster waiting for the opportunity to break the surface?

"What are you thinking about so hard?" Elizabeth asks me. She is tucked under my armpit as we lie in her bed. The sheets are soaked with the blood from the bathtub and there's probably a trail on the carpet. I don't even notice or care. Ms. Evers will take care of it with ease, I'm sure.

"Just thinking of how much I've changed since I came here," I confess. "I used to be so angry about everything, but now…I could almost say I'm happy."

"You're still plenty angry, darling," Elizabeth says, looking into my eyes. "I've always been able to smell your rage. It's even stronger than it was before."

"Yeah, but it's different now," I explain, looking away from Elizabeth. I don't want her to see the almost dreamy look in my eyes when I add, "I don't try to deny it anymore. I just let it all in." I can't help but think of James, the one I show the true depths of that fury to.

"You certainly do," Elizabeth agrees. "You've been busy with our resident serial killer since you arrived."

I temper the slight panic in my expression before turning toward her. "We just have a lot in common, that's all."

"I know you do," she replies. "Murder is your fuel, and I'm okay with that," she says, giving me a meaningful stare, "as long as you always come back to me."

I break eye contact first, turning my worry away from her. She and I don't talk about James often. I have a feeling she suspects that we are close, but I'm not sure if she's aware of just how close.

The Countess props herself up on an elbow and grabs my chin, turning my head toward her to look me directly in the eyes. "Go to him whenever you like. Get the darkness out of your system, but always remember that your heart belongs to me."

I nod slowly. Elizabeth lies back down and the sense of dominating threat coming from her is gone, but the nagging anxiety in me does not subside.

* * *

 _March_

I stand over the bed in Room 64, looking down at the corpse of the woman Mr. March brought to me. The torture went on for nearly twenty minutes before the poor lady finally died. There is some guilt at the back of my mind, but it's mostly there because I think that I should maybe feel more of it. What I feel most is exhilaration, an almost giddy high coursing through my body. I drop the whip on the floor and look back at the ghost. The dead aristocrat has that characteristic evil grin on his face. I glance down quickly to see that he is sporting an impressive erection.

"A job well done, my young apprentice," he says, "but I see that you are not fully satisfied." He looks down at my crotch, seeing that I am in a similar state of arousal. "Since I died, murder is enough to stimulate me, but you need release, orgasm."

Suddenly, James is pushing me up against the wall, pressing his forearm hard against my throat. The abrupt reposition has me dizzy, but that's not the only contributor. I can feel James's breath over my face, see up close the madness in his beautiful eyes. The fear and arousal are building deep in my gut. I feel I might burst, cum without being touched for the second time in his presence. He pulls a knife from his jacket and waves it in front of me. "Maybe I'll just release you now, slit your throat and send you straight to hell."

I can feel my heartbeat on my tongue, in my ears. "Do it, then." I lean forward, trying to connect our lips, but he keeps me at bay with his arm. James moves his arm and instead presses the knife against my neck, hard. The pleasure licks at the base of my spine and I feel a fine tremble in my legs. I wonder if they are going to give out.

James's murderous, manic expression falters, replaced by frustration and confusion as to why he can't slash my throat and let me bleed out all over the carpet. His face contorts as an animalistic snarl rips its way out from deep in his throat. He turns around and throws the corpse unceremoniously from the bed to the floor before gripping my arm and throwing me on the bed so that I bounce before landing. Having James manhandle me this way turns me on even more.

"Strip," Mr. March demands, staring at me intensely. I obey, slowly removing my jeans, my half-buttoned shirt, my socks and boxers all while keeping eye contact with the killer. James finally looks down to survey my body. I feel exposed, vulnerable, which is new for me. I've been nude in front of plenty of people, both men and women, and I've never felt self-conscious. Now, though, I nearly squirm as James admires my physique.

In an instant, the ghost is on the bed, hovering over me without pressing his full weight upon me like I wish he would. I crane my neck to kiss him, but he forces me back down by returning the knife to my throat. "No fun," I whine.

"This is not supposed to be fun," James says in a deadly serious tone. "You have to be the dullest man I have ever met. No survival instinct at all." He begins to move the blade across my chest, outlining my defined pectorals. I can't help but moan, throwing my head back as shallow cuts appear on my skin. The mixture of pain and pleasure is exquisite.

"Look at me," James commands. I comply, looking up into the face of a man on the brink between lust and disdain, control and insanity. I honestly don't know if he's going to kill me or not, and while it should fill me with terror, I feel a mad glee in my core that nearly has me fainting.

The ghost continues to move the knife down my body, over my abdominals and across my pubic bone. Thin streams of blood trickle over my skin and onto the bed, mixing with the mess that I left after torturing the woman whose forgotten remains lie feet away on the floor. After cutting down my legs, the ghost sits up to admire his handiwork. He then raises the knife high into the air, poised to end it all. I take in a sharp breath and hold it, staring into the furious expression and eagerly awaiting the climax, whether it ends in my orgasm or my death.

James finally throws the knife carelessly aside and lunges forward again, pressing his body fully over mine. He writhes and I feel our bodies connect in every place. The flat planes of our chests slide against one another. Our cocks throb as mine rubs against his stomach, his against my thigh. The beautiful ghost buries his face in my neck, biting down on my soft flesh as we continue to move in tandem, all thrusting hips and warm, breathy gasps.

Even with James fully dressed, it is the most erotic experience of my life. I've been waiting for what seems like years to connect with him, to touch him since I stole that kiss. The contact is like plunging into a pool of cool water after navigating an arid wasteland. James repositions himself so that his dick rubs just under my balls, the place between my own erection and my unexplored entrance. The heavy, delicious electricity in my core grows, threatens to crest at any moment. The ghost leans down and connects our lips in a shockingly tender kiss and it sends me over the edge. I hear someone moaning, nearly screaming, and I know somewhere at the back of my mind that it is me. The sweet pleasure engulfs me and I let go, relaxing under it as if I'm still human and lying under the summer sun, basking in the radiance. I lose touch with reality, seeing white behind my closed eyes, floating in a timeless paradise.

I come to a few minutes later, abrupt realization of my surroundings flooding in. I look down my chest and there is James, covered in a fine sheen of sweat, his breathing nearly evened out, his ear pressed over my heart. He looks surprisingly serene and vulnerable, his eyes closed and his mouth in a slight smile.

"I haven't reached completion with another person in over eighty years," he admits. His head snaps up to look at me, instant regret on his face as if he is just realizing that he has let his guard down, has shown an intimate part of himself to me like one would to a lover.

"It's okay, James," I try to assure him as he gets up, refusing to look in my direction as he walks away and around the corner to the room's entrance. I know that he has disappeared to my sight. I sigh, lying flat on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. I know that any more contact with James is going to take quite a bit of coaxing, but that fact does not trump the overwhelming satisfaction that makes my body feel boneless and sated. My only regret is that when the sun goes down tonight and I wake from my sleep, the cuts that serve as reminders of our first physical encounter will be gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**In a way, this story has become an AU of odd-numbered seasons of AHS. In Coven and Murder House, and now I suspect in Hotel, Murphy loves to give us characters that flee from what seems to be a promising rehabilitation (Madame LaLaurie is the prime example) or realize the need for reform far too late (Fiona, Marie Leveau, Tate). If these versions of Tristan and James are beginning to seem a bit OOC, then that's sort of the point. I love Murphy's plotlines, but for once maybe I need to see one of his beautifully flawed characters choose to not isolate from a worthwhile relationship. This might tell you a lot about who I am as a person, so come inside and make yourself comfortable.**

* * *

I'm not gay, or at least that's what I used to insist upon constantly. Truth be told, though, I was never really straight, either, if your definition of sexuality goes at all beyond release and power. Life has never been easy for me with selfish and neglectful parents, having to steal to survive after quitting high school and setting out on my own, and meth addiction that dictates every day of your life. I know there are people that have had it harder, but I've done the best I can in my particular reality and, most importantly, I've survived. The reason I did is because the biggest thing I had going for me was my body, my face, my sexuality. Whenever I found myself wanting something-a fix, a good fuck, a job, to be left alone-I'd just turn on the seduction and it was almost always handed to me. It worked on plenty of girls, junkies, the gay talent scout who got me into modeling, and even a few cops.

I see now that the only difference between manipulating men and women with sex was how I lied to myself and others about it. I always felt the need to deny that I enjoyed sex with men even a little bit, always insisting in my head and out loud that it had been a chore to accomplish some need. I never saw the hypocrisy of using men and women both, but claiming that I lived to fuck women while supposedly putting myself out to get what I wanted from a man with a great amount of distaste. Even when I first arrived at the hotel, I had to justify myself to Elizabeth every time I drank from a guy after luring him in with my promiscuity. Just blood, not sex. Just blood. True enough, but why did I feel so compelled to consistently point it out?

I guess the why doesn't matter now. It's spring and I sometimes feel I'm a different person. For the first time in my life, I'm having sex that's not just about me getting off or getting something on the other side. When I'm with Elizabeth, I'm not just taking pleasure from her; I'm serving my queen, the one who gave me this gift of new life in this home that happens to also be a giant torture chamber. I do not feel for her romantically, but it does not mean I am any less devoted to her than the most faithful of lovers. When I'm with James, it's a level of enjoyment and intimacy I have never known. It's always kinky and usually ends with me covered in my own blood, and when I cum I feel like my very soul is being carved to pieces and put back together. I see the body of a man laying over me, feel a man's chest against my own, and experience acutely another man's dick penetrating me. It hasn't once bothered me, though. I'm obsessed with my ghost, and the fact that he is a man seems so irrelevant and forgettable that I haven't given it a thought since the first time I swallowed his cock.

* * *

 _March_

I head toward Room 64, a young professional from Oregon just steps behind me. I know he's checking out my ass in these leather pants. This is my talent, using my body to lure men into doing what I want. Of course, this poor bastard doesn't know that what I want from him is to bring him to James, coax him out so I can watch him murder the guy. I'm desperate to see James after he disappeared two days ago. I've been trying to give him his space, but scrunching my eyes shut and trying to remember every thrust of his hips over mine while I have sex with Elizabeth isn't enough anymore. I need his touch. I need to see his face when he finishes this dumb fuck's life. I need to bring pleasure to the man I am obsessed with, and I want him to possess me, to need me, too.

I kiss the guy as we enter the room, using all the sexual tension inside of me to trick the man into thinking I'm actually into him as I back him toward the infamous death chute. I press the man against the wall and go down on my knees, taking out his cock. I really do give a good blowjob, and I could even say I used to enjoy the power of making another man beg for more with my mouth if I was drunk or high, but I'm neither now. Murder, blood, and sex with James are my drugs of choice, so sucking this guy is simply a way to distract him before he meets his gory fate. I fill the man up with pleasure while looking around the room for my ghost. Several minutes later, my jaw is getting tired and Mr. March still hasn't shown up. Rage begins to ramp up in me like it does so easily these days. Where the fuck is he? Being denied sex is something I'm not used to, and I'm thirsty for the sweet pain and pleasure, lust and fury that have marked my encounters with James so far.

"Come on, James," I grind out as I stroke the guy, giving my jaw a rest.

"My name's Joe," the guy says. I look up into his eyes and see red. All the poor dude did was tell me his name, but he's the easiest target for the anger jamming any sensible thought my brain may otherwise produce.

"Sorry, Joe," I say, and if he knew me, he would know my tone of voice is full of deadly intent, "my mistake." The young professional doesn't know what hit him as I pull the knife from my leather jacket and stick him right in the lower abdomen. He yells as I see and feel the blood gush out all over my face. I can't help but stick out my tongue, catching as much of it in my mouth as I can before lapping the thick, warm liquid off of his abs. The man finally dies and falls to the floor. I stand up and a mad chuckle bubbles up from my throat as I stare down at the mess.

"You know, I almost enjoy watching you flaunt your brutality as much as I enjoy being brutal," Mr. March says from behind me. A wicked grin creeps onto my face as he continues, "I can't resist showing myself to you when you murder so passionately."

"Sorry, man, this one was supposed to be for you," I say, gesturing to the corpse against the wall.

"Well then we'll just have to get another one, won't we?" James suggests, and the hint of mischief in his tone is heightening the already substantial lust pulsing through me from the kill.

"I'll be right back," I say, moving toward the hallway

"Later, my friend." I am surprised when the ghost pushes me against the wall and kisses me, spreading the blood on my face all over his. "I am craving something else at the moment, as difficult as that is for me to believe." James pushes me back onto my knees. "He looked like he was enjoying himself before you got thirsty. Show me."

The grin on my face only widens. I unzip the serial killer's trousers and take down his briefs. My movements are slow, deliberate, an effort to savor this moment. The ghost has a way of disappearing and I often fear that he will soon decide to never show himself to me again. I finally reveal the man's impressive cock and admire its perfect proportion and the weight of it in my hand. I suddenly backpedal mentally, remembering that I am not gay, am not supposed to be fascinated by another man's cock. For the first time since embarking on this chaotic adventure with the dead aristocrat, I have doubts. Who am I now? If I keep speeding away from the man I was when I entered the Hotel Cortez, who will I be on the other side?

"I too have had doubts about this, Tristan," James says in a serious tone, reflecting my unspoken concerns. I look up at him, and I feel unshed tears in my eyes. "When I was alive, I never even thought of two men relating to each other in this way. I barely knew what a pansy was at all." The ghost pauses, staring into my eyes in that way that only he can, seeing my soul and his own at the same time. "I can't get you out of my mind, though, and I know it is the same for you. I tried to hide myself from you, but I could not. You are too wild, too furious, and too beautiful. I have given up." I try to look away, but the ghost captures my chin and forces me to look at him. "When you find your calling, your inspiration, you do not turn away."

I nod my head slowly, knowing that every word spoken is true. It is both terrifying and exhilarating when you hear someone call you out, find someone who understands you enough to do so. I allow the terror and glee to fill me, light me up from the inside. I focus my attention back to March's perfect cock, and I let go, putting all my energy into tasting him. I lick the head, savor the salty burst of pre-ejaculate. I relax my throat and take the hot column of muscle as far as I can, loving the duality of satiny skin over firm erection. I pull back slowly, releasing a slutty, honest moan; there is no need for acting. James's dick leaves my mouth with a loud pop. I look up into the ghost's face. It is painted with mischief and enjoyment. It is open, more open than it's ever been. He is no longer hiding from me, and I feel like I could fly. He reaches into my hair and gives a firm tug, knowing that pain and pleasure are the same for me. "I didn't tell you to stop."

* * *

I leave the room half an hour later, having sucked my ghost off to completion twice. I didn't even cum myself, but it doesn't matter. I feel sated just the same. I am on my way to the bar, seeking another victim so James can take his turn filling the daily craving for blood and carnage, swing his hammer and send another poor soul down his death chute. I find no one there, so I take a seat and wait patiently, which is so unlike me. Liz Taylor walks out from the kitchen and strolls up to me.

"The Countess has been looking for you," she tells me. "She's been by here twice."

I try to tame the concern on my face. "Is she pissed?"

"Hard to tell with her," Liz answers, an appraising look on her face. "Looks like you've been busy."

"What do you mean?" I ask, breaking eye contact and attempting to look oblivious.

Liz raises an eyebrow. "The puffy lips, that serene look in your eyes, the smell of dick on your breath." The bartender smirks as my eyes widen. "You've been a busy boy. Never pegged you for a homo. Guess that explains all of your machismo overcompensation."

I roll my eyes. "It's 2016, Liz. Labels are out. Even I know that."

The bartender smiles. "Right you are, my boy. Now run along," she insists, shooing me away. "Don't keep that woman waiting any longer. She's not the forgiving type, that one."

The man's words sink in and some of the mellow feeling fades. I make my way up the stairs, trying to compose myself and formulate an excuse. James has opened up to me, but I must now shut down to my queen somewhat and pray she doesn't notice.


End file.
